


Scratch

by SLWalker



Series: Arch to the Sky [40]
Category: due South
Genre: Arch to the Sky, Chicago (1995-1998), Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-27
Updated: 2011-08-27
Packaged: 2017-10-23 03:00:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/245551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SLWalker/pseuds/SLWalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1996: Turnbull gets an interesting offer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scratch

"Hey! Hey! Slow down!"

It took Turnbull a few long moments to figure out that the voice was directed at him, and when he looked back to see who it was, he hit a bowed part of the sidewalk and the world tilted. Luckily, his hands took the brunt of it; his uniform was far more expensive than his flesh.

"Oh, shit." The young woman who had apparently been the owner of the voice stopped short about three feet away, wide-eyed, then winced and stepped closer more slowly, offering her hands. "I'm sorry, I just wanted to ask you a question."

Turnbull righted himself on the sidewalk, shaking his hands and shaking his head at her offer, then gave back a pleasant little duty smile. "No apologies necessary, ma'am. How may I be of assistance?"

The woman was close to his own age; she had a medium build, short-cropped black hair and her t-shirt was layered over another t-shirt, the first of which had holes in it that allowed the second to show through. There were paint-stains on it. And she gave back a slightly crooked smile, hands still out. "How may you... wow. Well, we see you walk by every day we're in the park, and we were wondering if you'd model for us."

Turnbull blinked. Several times.

"You know, model. Strike a pose, let us draw you...?" The woman's dark eyebrows went up.

"Ah... why?"

"Why not?" She shrugged, gesturing with her out-stretched hands. "We just got together a couple of months ago, and we've already drawn each other..." Apparently, his chronic incomprehension must have finally become apparent; she blinked back and giggled. "I don't mean _nude_ if that's what you're thinking. Just show up, strike some pose for us, and we'll buy you lunch after?"

Turnbull hadn't actually been thinking she meant that he pose in the nude -- such a thought left him more than a little uneasy -- but now that she'd said it, he turned red. He did finally crawl to his feet, though he did so under his own power, hands still stinging bright and hot to go with the heat on his face. "Ah, I... that is, I'm afraid I'm... I'm on my way to work right now..."

The woman looked at him for a long moment, a look he was long familiar with -- _are you from Earth?_ \-- then smiled again. "It doesn't need to be today. When are you off?"

Turnbull went to open his mouth and answer automatically, then stopped himself. "I'm afraid... that is, I'm not really..."

She peered up at him, raising her eyebrows. "Ready to come out from under the rain-cloud over your head?"

He closed his mouth with a click, and the ache in his chest that had mostly quieted briefly flared into homesickness and memory, before he stuffed it back down again.

"Saturday."

"Okay, great." The woman pulled out a notepad from her back pocket, took the little pencil out of the spiral, and wrote down the date, time and location before tearing off the paper and offering it over. "See you there!"

He stood holding the paper for a long several moments after she left, then finally shook his head at himself and continued on towards the Consulate.

 

 

In truth, Turnbull had no desperate desire to go and model, even for as... as kind as the woman was. As such, he had simply left the piece of paper sitting on his desk, and while he didn't _forget_ it was there, he just didn't... just didn't...

Didn't.

Didn't really think about it. Didn't really want to. He had not picked up his sketchbook in quite a long time, and really, art was probably the furthest thing from his mind, either as something he could create or something he could help others create. Not that there was much in his mind anyway, aside the immediate forms and files and phone calls, but as for creativity...

He kept working on copying the form he had accidentally ruined, listening with half-an-ear to the goings on of the Consulate. Inspector Thatcher was currently on the telephone with their superiors in Ottawa, presumably about the new building they were due to occupy in a couple more months. Constable Fraser was out with Detective Vecchio, liaising. Ovitz, whose personality was only mildly less pleasant than a barracuda's, was likely packing up his office so he could leave next week.

Even Turnbull couldn't make himself feel too badly about that; the Inspector had caught the man making some off-handed comment about her legs and for once, it was a relief to not be the one being dragged over the coals.

The door opened and Detective Vecchio breezed in. "Don't say it, don't say--"

"Welcome to Canada, Detective Vecchio," Turnbull said, standing up and keeping his polite little smile firmly fixed into place.

"Lemme guess, 'how may you be of assistance?'" The detective jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Tell my partner that the next time he decides he wants to stop a train-car full of stuffed mooses in search of bomb, he should take my Riv's suspension into consideration. And my clothes. You see this?" Vecchio gestured to his slacks, where there was quite a clear coffee stain. "Just look at that! These are never gonna be the same. But nooooo. 'Ray, there may lives at risk, please take your fine, vintage automobile into a _train yard_ immediately, and I will be too busy hanging out the window to hold your coffee for you...'"

Detective Vecchio's propensity towards ranting still often baffled Turnbull, especially as Detective Vecchio still consistently and loyally worked with Constable Fraser. That being said, he didn't really find Detective Vecchio to be nearly so abrasive as first impressions might suggest he should; the man had a habit of ranting and blustering, but even then...

"I... well, I'm afraid that-- you see, Detective, it really isn't my place..."

"I know, I know." Detective Vecchio sighed out, arms falling loosely to his sides, then looked up with his eyebrows up, smiling a little. "Guess he won't listen to you any better than he does me. Hey, you mind if I go and get a glass of water?"

Turnbull's eyebrows went up in answer before he had time to realize they had, and he shook his head automatically. "I don't mind."

For some reason, that seemed to please Detective Vecchio, who smiled brighter before heading back towards the small kitchenette, leaving Turnbull thinking about a green car, a green-eyed detective, a flying cup of coffee and a giant cascade of stuffed moose toys.

Turnbull hadn't entirely realized that his pen was in motion on the ruined form he was copying before Constable Fraser came in. Immediately, Fraser held his hand up. "At ease."

Turnbull clasped his hands behind his back. "Sir."

Fraser offered back his own duty-smile. "Has Detective Vecchio been through?"

"Ah, yes, sir. He's currently getting himself some water in the kitchen."

That seemed to surprise Fraser; his eyebrows momentarily jumped up slightly higher, and then he nodded and moved to presumably follow the Detective when he stopped and stepped backwards, looking at the form on the desk, one eyebrow slowly going up.

Turnbull looked down.

....oh. Dear.

Detective Vecchio was rendered quite... well, cartoony; he was wide-eyed and obviously deeply displeased as his coffee flew through the air and an avalanche of stuffed moose toys were about to bury him.

Turnbull turned a furious sort of red, opening and closing his mouth a few times before reaching out to pick up the form and promptly remove it from view; Lord, but he couldn't even keep his head together to do something as simple as copying _forms_ without looking like an incompetent buffoon, doodling on his work like some child bored in school, and-- "I'm terribly sorry, sir, I don't know where my mind--"

Fraser stopped him with a hand on the forearm, making him jerk his arm back to himself; after an apologetic little look, the senior Constable picked up the form carefully, looking at it with his face blank. "You draw?"

"Not... not... not especially often, these days, sir."

Fraser kept looking over the cartoon, and then he... smiled. A little smile, clearly suppressed from a larger one that he chewed back. He gave a little nod, then looked back up with a vague squint; there was something... something... warm? In his expression. A look Turnbull very rarely saw, at least in any way directed at him. Likely more for the cartoon than the cartoonist, but it was still... still...

"May I keep this?" Fraser asked, gesturing with the form.

"Of course, sir," Turnbull answered, not entirely sure if he was more afraid or more pleased for the tacit approval.

"Thank you kindly," Fraser said, folding the form carefully so that it wouldn't cut across the cartoon, and continuing towards the kitchenette.

 

 

The park was small, and the group of six was easy enough to find; they were sitting around with their sketchbooks, and the woman who had invited him was currently drawing. Turnbull nearly turned around and left, hanging back in the trees for a long moment. He didn't know why he was here. He felt entirely silly. He didn't know these people, and aside from a doodled cartoon on a ruined form, he hadn't really drawn anything in... in...

And he really had no interest in being a model, either. In fact, this was more than entirely silly; it was downright stupid, as well. He didn't know these people, he didn't know why he was here, he didn't even really feel anything remotely comparable to an artistic mood and...

 _And what?_

He looked down at the new sketchbook and pack of pencils in his hands, trying to untangle the swirl of ache and... something else in his chest, at least enough to figure out why he was here. What the point was. What good it could do.

It seemed far too easy to turn around and walk back out of the park.

The group looked up, and the woman with the crooked smile stood, when he stepped forward instead.


End file.
